


The Devil's Gambit

by TheWritingSquid



Series: Disaster Dad [12]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Dadgil, Family Feels, Flashback Arkham, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28322694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingSquid/pseuds/TheWritingSquid
Summary: Frustrated with his inability to fullybethe demon dad, Vergil attempts to use his full devil trigger, bypass the power of the leftover pieces of the Nelo Angelo armour, and rush through the rest of his healing.
Relationships: Lady & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Series: Disaster Dad [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1424623
Comments: 122
Kudos: 229





	1. The Devil's Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> The body horror tag is for Vergil's attempt a transformation. It's not TOO heavy, but I'm erring on the side of caution here.

Vergil splashed cold water across his face, letting its icy sting ground him into the present. He was home, in his bathroom. None of it had been real—at least not this time. Nightmares clung to him harder with every piece of armour Dante removed, memories slipping out of his subsconscious, invading his dreams and plaguing far too many waking hours. He no longer counted how often a single word had staggered him out of reality. When he washed dishes, the prickling of hot water on his skin brought back hell’s scorching flames wrapping his body. When he stepped on a sharp rock, he felt the sting of demon roots through his heels, climbing alongside his bones, holding his body like a doll. Everything and anything brought the torture back to life, turning his days into a painful glaze.

Pain, though… Pain, Vergil had learned to deal with. He had gone through so much of it, what was the ghost of torture against his iron will? Vergil would deal with pain as he always had: gritting his teeth, stiffening his back, and enduring the grind until it became better. The real issue, he’d found, was not the physical pain.

All too often, Mundus’s otherworldly voice filled his ears, reminding him he was nothing, only a meaningless speck meant to serve, a weakling tainted by human blood. It haunted him day and night, declaring with utmost confidence that no one would care if he vanished. Dante hadn’t sought him a decade ago, why would he now? No, he was alone, unloved, could not rely on anyone but himself, his own power. And those words… those words sounded too much like his own, once, and they seared Vergil’s heart and mind harder than any flame. Against them, his only shield was Nero’s bright smile and eager voice, and Dante’s ever-annoying, invasive presence. 

Vergil needed them, needed his family to hold him tight, steady him before he spiralled out again and believed the lies. Nero slept, however, and Dante was either in his dirthole napping or out hunting, so Vergil had nothing but cold water and his own willpower. He splashed himself again, harder this time, letting the water run through his hair and weigh it down before it slid along his neck, its path easy to track until it hit the accursed breastplate. Dante had torn all but the chest and back pieces of the armour now, but the last pieces had knocked Vergil out for a full day and left him exhausted for weeks. With the incoming trip to their secret camping site—a full weekend out in the sun which was bound to drain him further—they’d opted to wait for the last two massive chunks of armour. 

Vergil hated it. He did not want to wait anymore. They had needed half a year to rip every bit of this armour off—half a year in which he could barely muster the strength to be the parent Nero needed, half a year in which, in fact, Nero took more care of him than the other way around. School was right around the corner, and Vergil had wanted to be healed by then. Now he knew he wouldn’t be, and the failure was acid in his stomach.

It wasn’t fair. Not that life had ever been fair to him, anyway, and Vergil wouldn’t have wasted time to lament this misfortune if it didn’t also affect Nero. His son should not have to be a caretaker at five. He should be running outside with friends, or playing ball with his goofy uncle, or devouring books faster than the library allowed lending. Nero had already been cut off from so many childhood joys, to think Vergil himself was now blocking out even more…

Vergil’s grip on his sink tightened. This could not stand. He stared at himself in the mirror, pushing aside the bang hiding the fissures of corruption lining his face, a clear brand of his failure. They still ran deep, although they no longer had the faint glow of power Nelo Angelo’s armour had granted them. The red of his eye had faded with time, too, but it wasn’t gone entirely yet. 

Maybe… maybe he could make them vanish.

The idea came unbidden, borne out of frustration and another sleepless night. Every time Dante tore off a piece of the armour, his previous powers returned, too. He’d regained his peculiar sense of time and space, could feel it almost within reach. Last week he had managed a few brief blue sparks, sign his summoned swords weren’t that far either. _Vergil_ —the man he’d been once, the one Mundus had shattered into small, cutting pieces, the one Nero had loved so deeply and readily called demon dad… that man was just around the corner. Perhaps if he only gave a little push… 

Vergil stared at himself, inhaled deeply, then slicked the bang backward with the rest of his hair. He steeled his breath and reached within, where the core of his power waited. Once, Nero had asked him to transform to prove he was his dad, and Vergil had been unable to. The armour had clamped down on his power, sucking it away before he could shift, using Vergil’s own energy to grant him strength and speed but keep him in line. Mundus’s power had always come at the cost of obedience. Vergil’s own strength meant freedom—it was his one tool to protect himself and others, and without it, he was not himself.

The armour pulsed as he wrestled his devil power away from its cage, letting it suffuse his bones and sink into every inch of his body. Cold washed over Vergil, a familiar strength more grounding than any water could ever be, and it tore a sharp chuckle out of his throat. _This…_ He had no words for the sense of home it brought him, the way a hundred broken pieces of him suddenly joined together, reforming a mosaic once forgotten, painting his self in ways no poet could hope to capture. Scales crept alongside his arms, and a few tears rolled out as blue fire.

The first bone in his back snapped. 

Vergil cried out at the sudden pain, but he’d barely made sense of the brutal agony when a second bone followed suit, breaking. His legs gave under him and he collapsed to his knees, back hunched as muscles and bones snapped and fused back, stretching out into wings through unspeakable pain. One deployed fully, bending and cracking the armour piece on his back to carve his way out, but the other stuck under. Vergil gagged at the clarity of the sensation, the pull of muscles as the folded wing half jutted out, parts trapped under the metal.

He did not get a chance to think more closely of what was happening to him. Fire poured out of his eyes, his entire body clenched, and his skull exploded in brutal, mind-wiping pain. Vergil collapsed, darkness dragging him to the edge of consciousness as his body struggled to get through the devil trigger, his meagre power too weak to carry out his will in full.

###

Sometimes Nero woke up and his da’ wasn’t in bed. He didn’t sleep well, not anymore. That didn’t worry Nero, because his da’ said it was normal and it would go away with time. He never wanted to say how long ‘time’ was, but Nero had learned not to ask questions. Da’ couldn’t talk much, even now, so everyone was very careful about when they really wanted him to speak. He kept the questions and asked them from zio Dante and the Lady. Sometimes even from Trish, but she had strange answers. Everything was already confusing, and she made him feel lost.

So Da’ wasn’t in bed, but Nero wasn’t scared. He could still feel him in the house. He had gotten better at feeling demons. Sometimes he did nothing but sit close to his da’ and feel him. It was a bit weird to do that, because he didn’t feel the same all the time. Sometimes he felt like Mister Knight, and sometimes he felt like Da’ from before. It changed when Zio Dante came and they removed the armour, too. Nero didn’t understand it, but he liked when his Da’ felt like he’d always had before, so he paid attention. Those were the days Da’ had more words, even if they were very short days because he needed to rest more, too.

Then Da’s presence flared, the way it did before, when he made himself warm and scaly, and Nero’s heart jumped. Was his demon dad back? This _was_ him! It didn’t feel like Mr. Knight at all! Eyes wide, Nero scrambled out of his blankets and jumped down.

His father screamed, raw and loud. Something heavy fell.

“Da’!”

Nero half-gasped, half-yelled the exclamation. His tiny feet hit the ground fast as he ran out of the room. Da’ was hurting, and his presence wavered in strange ways, and this wasn’t normal, it wasn’t. His heart had bundled up all tight and he had tears in his throat. Blue light radiated from the bathroom, so Nero dashed for it. 

“ _Da’!”_

He found him sprawled in their bathroom. And he had been right about his da's demon—he was there—but only horror filled Nero. Everything about it was wrong wrong wrong.

Blue scales only covered half of his face, and the two big horns Nero had liked to grip while riding on his da's shoulders were all cracked and brittle. One of his wings stretched out at a weird angle and the other only half jutted out. Tears filled Nero's eyes: it looked broken and snapped. His da' growled and raked a dark scaly hand across the tiles. When one of his claws snapped and he howled, Nero jumped back with a cry of fear.

He hurt. He had to hurt and he was all wrong and his movements jerked so much. Nero's heart pounded in time with his da's rattling gasps, and with the flickering of his old aura. Panic crawled through him, freezing him to the spot as blue energy ran over his da's body like tiny bolts of lightning. What was happening? Why—

His da's screamed again, and something _popped_ , and he arched and hit his head on the ground. A whole horn crumpled into dust and it was too much for Nero. He scrambled out of the room, his vision blurred, his body shaking. He didn't want his da' to suffer. He wanted them to be happy again, to play in the park or read books or ride his bicycle. But there was always something—fatigue or pain or Uncle Dante coming to remove armour or the sun being too strong and now-now this! And what if his da' was dying and he would be gone again, and Nero loved Uncle Dante and the Lady but he didn't wanna go back to that, he didn't, he—

He knew what to do.

They had showed him. They had showed him the buttons to press on the phone to call for help, told him it was important if demons came. And there weren't any monsters but Nero was so scared, and he didn't know what else to do. He ran to the phone on the wall and dragged a chair under it, climbing up as the terrifying _clang_ of his da's armour smashing into something echoed into the house. He grabbed the receiver, and his hands shook so bad he almost dropped it. But Nero held on, sweaty palms on it as he smashed the number in. Every new ring made his heart jump. Please please please answer.

"Vergil?"

Relief washed through Nero at the Lady's voice and he sobbed into the phone. His words wouldn't come, staying deep in his belly where they were safe.

"Nero, is that you?"

She didn't sound drowsy at all now. Nero nodded, then remembered she couldn't see. He reached deep inside to drag the words out. They came in the form he knew best.

"Zia Lady! Da' è male. È… è…" Nero stopped, sniffed. They needed English. The Lady spoke English. "He's a demon. Half. I mean… he's—"

Another sharp scream cut him off. The Lady said some bad words in the phone so she must have heard.

"Hide somewhere safe and wait for me, Nero. I'm coming."

She hung up the phone, but Nero didn’t. He stared at the receiver because that was easier than looking back towards the bathroom. He couldn’t breathe right, and he was so dizzy, and everything was wrong. But the Lady was coming, and if she needed help she would call his zio, too, and they would make everything right again. Or at least the way it’d been, before tonight. Nero sat down, small hands around the phone, hoping she would be here very very fast.


	2. Midnight Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Nero's emergency call, Lady rushes to Vergil's home to fix what she can.

Middle-of-the-night traffic (or rather, lack thereof) got Lady to Vergil’s door in no time flat. Her heart was pounding, and she’d left in such a hurry she’d only grabbed a single gun and a loose, long shirt. The hot bike seat under her ass made her regret the extremely light boyshorts that comprised her whole nightwear, but fuck, she’d never been one to sweat herself to death with unnecessary layers. Still, she hopped off the moment she could, sprinting up the stairs and not bothering with knocking. 

It still felt weird, to be the emergency contact—too overt an acknowledgement of, well, everything. Lady preferred her relationships buried behind snippy wits contests, the level of care understated or silent. Maybe that was why she struggled to be around Vergil at all these days. The banter was gone, replaced by slow, meaningful looks and the occasional brutal and unexpected honesty. She’d seen him on one of his better days, though, and he’d snarked at Dante, so not all was lost. And anyway, she and Vergil agreed they couldn’t rely on Dante’s rickety office phone, even _if_ he was awake and around it, so she wound up emergency contact. 

Lady didn’t bother to remove her boots or store her gun when she entered, ignoring house rules and stomping past the entrance, into the main room. They’d expected demons to be the cause for any emergency, but from what little Nero had said, that hadn’t been the problem. Still, she kept her finger at the trigger, just in case.

Nero came running for her, arms extended and cheeks streaked red with tears, so Lady picked him up and allowed the boy to throw his arms around her neck and cling tight there. He hadn’t been this shaken since they’d had to escape the _Devil May Cry_ together, at least not with her, and she forced herself not to press him for information or move along. He needed a moment, just a tiny moment. She knew he’d recover: he’d seen so many horrors already, and always bounced back.

In less than a minute, Nero’s sobs had turned into a sniffle, and then he wiggled to be put down. She crouched by his side and brushed his bangs aside.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Nero swallowed hard and looked towards the bathroom. “I-I don’t know. He’s demon, but not… not…” Nero trailed off for a moment, turning his gaze to his small toes. “He doesn’t scream as much now.”

The ‘as much’ sent a chill down her spine. Poor kid. And also, fuck, if Vergil had been _screaming_ in pain, that couldn’t have been good. Lady squeezed Nero’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of it, but I bet he’ll be really thirsty. You wanna get me some water?”

Once Nero headed towards the kitchens, Lady crept her way to the bathroom. Cold fear curled in her stomach as she wrapped her fingers around the door’s handle. What manner of horror would she find in there? What had Vergil done this time? She pushed it open, slow and steady, half-expecting a feral half-demon to jump her. 

Instead, she found him curled by his sink, partly transformed into his regular demon form, contorted and tense from obvious pain. Blood and brittle scales clung to his hair, and a bright red line on his left cheek now mirrored the blue ones borne out of corruption. Had he been scratching himself? Lady inched closer, kneeling by his side. Judging by the blood covering his scaled right hand—on which two sharp claws had been snapped—she’d have to say yes. The tiles and walls had the right marks for claws, too. Ugh, what a mess. Yet none of it compared to the terrible state of his wings.

Lady had avoided gazing at them at first, the lurching in her stomach too bad. She’d seen her lot of body horror through the years, but this wasn’t some random demon she meant to cribble with bullets, and the _wrongness_ of the bent, snapped wings had twisted her insides hard and fast. Her hands hovered above them, stopping near the open wounds near the break. Only one wing had escaped the armour piece, which clung to Vergil’s back through a disgusting dark substance. The plate itself had been distorted by the push, and even if the wings vanished, it’d hang loose.

Removing it was probably her first step, then. This was way too soon after the last ones, but whatever. At this point, it could hardly make his state worse, could it? Lady grimaced, grabbed both sides of the plate, and set her foot under the bent area, partly through the black slime. 

“Ready or not,” she warned, more to ground herself than anything.

“L-Lady?”

She froze. Fuck, she had not expected the broken whisper. Mouth dry, fingers still on the cold armour, she answered. “Your kid called. Now shut up and bite down on something. You fucked up and it’ll hurt before it gets better.”

He didn’t reach for anything, only curled onto himself further. Her heart clenched at the sight of Mister Pride and Proper bracing himself in such a pathetic, desperate way, his loose hair and skin and whole body a complete mess. Fuck this bullshit. Seeing him like this angered her more than any of his goddamn sneers. 

With a cry of rage, Lady pulled the twisted back plate away. It came off slowly, tendrils of sludge snapping one after another, taking chunks of Vergil’s skin with them. She strained as hard as she could, putting every ounce of strength into it, eager to make the awful process short-lived. Vergil screamed, then chomped on his arm. She made a point not to look towards his face, to just focus and pull and pull, taking hope in the soft blue light under the dark substance.

Then the plate _popped_ , freeing the rest of his back completely, and Vergil jerked with the movement. One of his wings smashed into her, throwing her off balance. A flash of blue blinded her and something cold and spiky ensnared her torso, steadying her before she smashed her head into the wall.

His tail. 

Lady couldn’t help her bark of laughter. She patted it and dropped the armour on the ground. The soft glow covering Vergil’s back didn’t hide the blood seeping out of a thousand wounds, nor the gouges where the armour had been nailed into him. Not to mention the light was already flickering.

“You still with me?”

This time, Vergil offered no response. Out cold, then. Slick blood dripped along the grooves of his back, pooling at the base of his broken wings, then sliding off his side and to the ground. She needed to do something about that.

Lady emptied everything Vergil had in the way of first aid, and by the time she’d crouched by Vergil’s side again, Nero stood in the doorway, a glass of water in his hand. He stared, pale and wide-eyed, tracking the telltale red splashes all over his dad’s back, his soft round face contorting into horror with every passing second. Nero didn’t say a word, but the big fat tears suddenly pouring out of him told their own story. Lady bit back a curse.

“S’all right, kid,” she said. It wasn’t, and they both knew, and she hated the lie when it crossed her lips. “He’ll make it.” That was truer. “Do you want to help? You don’t have to. I can manage.”

He’d probably hinder her more than anything, but since Nero had seen Vergil… would helping traumatize him more? Was she better off keeping him within sight? Fuck, she had no idea. Nero was a sweet boy, but he was still a kid and she’d never learned to interact with children. Didn’t help that he wasn’t answering her question.

“Come hold this.”

Lady kept her tone firm, and Nero sprung into action. Maybe he was just too shocked, and if that was it, then she could manage. She knew how to give sharp and clear instructions.

They tended to Vergil’s open wounds together, covering his entire back with a wide variety of bandages. Halfway through the work, one of the two wings started glowing, and the light gathered strength until it turned blinding, forcing them both to cover their eyes. When they looked again, the wing was gone, leaving only a distorted shape where it had connected with Vergil’s back—as if his body couldn’t quite reshape the bones and cartilage there. Still, one less problem to deal with. She stared at the second wing, but it showed no sign of following suit. Lady sent Nero to prepare the bed before she moved to it—somehow, she figured the gruesome break in his father’s beautiful demon wings might be a tad too much for even a tough kid like him.

She’d tended to a wounded bird once, as a child, after it’d smashed into their window. She’d found it on the ground, its wing bent out of shape, and all but demanded they take care of it. Her mother had helped her find a small box and bedding to put down in it while Arkham retrieved one of his countless books. This one had diagrams of animal anatomy in it, and he read instructions from it, guiding them as they tied the wings to the bird, back in its folded position where it could heal. They’d nursed the little friend back to health, and Lady remembered with bitter clarity her joy as they released it, Arkham unclipping its wing with gentle care.

She pushed the memory away, fighting the hot anger swirling through her. That man was gone. He’d been gone long before she’d put several bullets into Arkham’s head, ending his life, and he didn’t deserve to be remembered fondly.

It took a while before she found a rope solid enough to (probably) hold Vergil, and she needed to take down the shower’s curtain pole to use for the splint. By then, she’d found Nero with his face collapsed in the pillows he’d set up for his dad, so she took a minute to place a blanket over him. Poor kid must have been exhausted, if he hadn’t even held on long enough to see Vergil in bed. 

Lady steeled her nerves and grabbed Vergil’s wing, forcing it back to its original position. The man jerked under her as she folded it and his tail snapped at her exposed leg, leaving a burning red gash across it. She gritted her teeth and held on tight, placing the two halves of the shower pole along the wings and then wrapping the rope around. She used the shower curtain—colourful squids and fishes that desperately needed to be washed—to solidify the whole, and by the time she was finished, Lady couldn’t hold her laughter. It didn’t matter that blood covered her legs, boots, and light night shirt, or that Vergil would have a hell of a time recovering: with this apparatus holding his wing, he looked absolutely ridiculous. She half sat, half collapsed on the ground besides him, allowing her laugh to stretch through time, clinging to the relief it brought. It’d be fine. He’d survive the night, and she sure couldn’t wait for Vergil to wake up and tell her what the fuck had happened.

Her mirth subsiding, Lady cleaned what she could of the blood all over Vergil, snapped a souvenir picture of his wing splint, then carried him into bed. Her muscles ached from the long night bandaging and holding him and she still ought to clean the mess in the bathroom, but the worst was over now. 

She placed him as close to Nero as she could without disturbing the child. Within seconds, Nero had rolled towards his father, unconsciously nestling himself by his chest. Vergil curled in closer, protectively, and his tail winding over the two of them. He threaded his fingers through Nero’s hair with striking tenderness, his frown softening as he did, even in sleep. One could not mistake the love there, and something ugly burned in her chest every time she sighted it, a bitterness she’d needed a long time to place. She was _jealous_ —jealous of Nero, of his luck—and she hated herself for it.

How twisted did one have to be, to feel such intense jealousy for a child? She had wished so deeply and fiercely for what Nero had now—for a father who loved her, who would go through Hell and back for her—that she had burned herself from the inside, leaving a hollow, angry shell. Arkham hadn’t given a shit. He’d played her, used her, left her for dead in his quest for power. Even at the end, begging for forgiveness, he had only thought of himself. 

This asshole had fuelled his rituals with their family’s blood, and yet she could not help but remember years long past, where he’d take a break from endless studies to lift her up and throw her high, smiling as she screamed with joy. _Little Mary can fly, fly, fly,_ he’d declare in a singsong voice, and she’d repeat _Flyyyy_ with all the sweet innocence of children.

That was gone, now, and the only ‘flying’ she did was speeding on her bike or diving from above on unsuspecting demons. Lady wished she could forget the good years; they only worsened what followed. But what she had managed to bury resurfaced more and more every time she watched Vergil and Nero. 

She’d been convinced they were the same, Arkham and him: two vile men who’d stop at nothing in their pursuit of power and their obsession with demons—and really, she hadn’t been all that wrong. Vergil had been an ass of the highest class on that tower, to her and even moreso to Dante. It had baffled her, how that fucker was the same person as the stiff but loving dad she met later, but it took only a little reading between the lines of his demon hunting notes to understand.

Vergil had sought power for its protection; Arkham had wanted it for its destruction.

Lady tore her gaze away from Vergil, stomping out of the bedroom and to the man’s kitchen. She needed a glass. Alcohol would have been great, but water would do. Anything to wash away the acrid taste at the back of her throat, the anger she had fuelled herself with in the year before the Temen-ni-gru, training so hard and so fast she had left no room for anything else. 

That, too, was something she had seen too clearly in Vergil’s journal. Always half said, implied through lines about focusing on the goal and discarding distractions, letting nothing and no one stand in his way. The words had echoed through her, found purchase within her soul. They were so ironically hers, too. After her mother had died, she’d had only one goal and _nothing_ was allowed to slow her down.

Lady downed her glass of water then splashed her face. She did not want to think of it, did not want one more fucking night wondering if Vergil had felt as empty as she had, at the end of it, aimless and confused. If failing had at least left him with purpose, where she’d been stranded, at a loss about what was supposed to come next. Not that she was ever gonna ask him that and expose herself for a question Vergil wouldn't even ask of himself, let alone answer. Some thoughts were never meant to see the light of day.

Her gaze drifted to the bathroom, its door ajar, its floor still stained with blood. She ought to clean, but fuck that. Dante could come help deal tomorrow. It was his turn, after all. Getting that call in the middle of the night, finding Vergil half-transformed and suffering, pulling off the armour and holding him while she splinted his wing… the whole damn night had taken its toll on her. And she was still barely dressed, her leg bloodied from his tail’s quick snap. Now that Vergil was safe, cuddling with his son, everything else could wait.

Lady drank another full glass then collapsed into the couch, groaning with satisfaction as it welcomed her sore muscles. She was out in an instant, too used to hard floors and thin camping bedroll to care about the less-than-ideal bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I was not ready for while starting this chapter: the deep dive in Lady's thoughts and fragments of Good Times with Arkham. :')


	3. The Routines of Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil wakes up from a rough night and discovers the result of his gambit.

The sight of his own human hands surprised Vergil as he stirred back to consciousness. Pain filled his body in strange ways, leaving him broken and bent out of shape as if a million bones had broken but not healed properly. Although… that wasn’t so far off the mark, was it? His sluggish brain parsed through agonizing memories, hints of Lady’s voice, the stench of blood, the power coursing through him… the armour, fighting him, fighting his transformation. His first bone popping, breaking with a sharp pain he’d never experienced in his devil trigger before. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing back the unsettling knowledge this must have happened every time, that his body broke and reformed into a devil’s and only his unnatural healing kept him standing through the transformation. 

Instead, Vergil focused his thoughts on the warmth between his arms, the smaller body leaning against him, steadying him into this world. Nero. He breathed into the unique smell of his boy’s hair and slowly slid a finger through their fluff, grounding himself in the softness. His entire body ached, wrong and out of place, but this… this would always be right. Vergil’s tail slithered over his son, squeezing him tighter. 

He tried to sink into the moment, to relax and rest and perhaps sleep longer, but his mind refused. A frazzled alertness had overtaken him, refusing to let go, as if danger crowded the edges of his consciousness and his entire body forcibly prepared for it. Vergil reluctantly extricated himself from around Nero, his heart squeezing as his son mumbled in his sleep and turned over, reaching for the newly vacated space. Specks of dried blood stained the back of his boy’s hand, and an anxious whirlwind rose through Vergil. He had lost control of his powers yesterday, but he’d only collapsed on the ground, hadn’t he? Surely he hadn’t attacked Nero, or hurt him. He wouldn’t, he’d never… 

The room around Vergil unfocused, his mind slipping away, to nightmares brought to life by the Lord of Darkness, to his demon form fully unleashed, the Yamato an extension of pure blue power, the bodies scattered around him. Slick blood trailed his scales as he contemplated his work and his eyes came to rest on white hair now stained red. A boy’s. _Dante_ , his mind supplied, but he knew better, knew that while he’d let Mundus reach that conclusion, the truth was much different. 

But he hadn’t done that, had he? Those were phantoms from Mundus’ tortures, pain-fuelled terrors he’d endured and escaped. Dante had come for him. He was home now, home and safe, even when everything hurt and his mind slipped into the dark reaches that still clung to him. Vergil ground his teeth, clenching his hands until nails dug into his palms—until said nails stretched into claws, drawing sharp pain and trapping his mind, forcing it to focus on the body, on cold wood under his feet, the weight on his left side, behind him, unbalancing him, and the delightful fresh air against… his bare back?

A strange giddiness filled him as he puzzled out the truth. No armour plate covered his back, not anymore, and though it throbbed where the armour’s inlaid spikes had dug into it—although the skin itself had been left so raw the slightest breeze pained him—he was free of it. Vergil could scarcely believe it. _Only one left now_ , he thought, his fingers gently landing on the front plates of his armour, the last piece covering his chest. 

This, at least, explained why his mind stayed on the edge, constantly threatening to slip away from reality and sink into the worst of his time with Mundus. One less defense against nightmares of the worst kinds, but also very little keeping the best memories from him. Vergil turned his gaze to Nero again, searching for times spent together, and let himself remember countless times cooking with his help, the much smaller boy sitting on the counter, or cleaning the house while he brawled with his zio in the living room. What had been flashes of images a few weeks ago now returned full-fledged, easy to grasp and keep with him. He _was_ healing, even if every step brought its new lows and new challenges.

Vergil steadied himself as best as he could—an act he knew from experience would leave him drained within an hour or two. He stepped away from the bed, towards the door, and stopped immediately, his balance thrown off by the weight on his left side. What was _that?_ But then he caught sight of Lady through the doorway, sprawled into his couch, underdressed even by her standard. The thin and bloodied shirt clung to her skin when it didn’t lay half-open, and while she had her usual bright red boots, the usual pouches-and-shorts combo had been replaced by night-time boyshorts. Her hair was a mess, and a long red gash lined one of her leg, obviously fresh. Had he…? He must have—who else, really? Either way, she’d tell him quickly enough herself once she woke up. For now, she needed a blanket to cover up. He couldn’t let her like _that_ in his home.

Determination renewed, Vergil stepped through the doorway—and bumped into it. He stopped at the _thump_ , his heart rate spiking, his fingers flexing for a weapon to defend himself with. Gritting his teeth, Vergil fought the instant panic crawling through him, coalescing into his throat in an almost overpowering nausea. He forced in a long breath, then a long exhale. _Iron will. Discipline._ There was no danger here. He was home and safe. He needed to stay calm, focus on his body and the strain in his left shoulder… and wing? _Oh._ Of course. No wonder his body felt so out of shape and unbalanced. Why did he only have one, though? Vergil tried to flex it, only to encounter resistance, and glanced over his shoulder. Was that his shower curtain?

“It’s in fashion.” Lady’s voice had the clammy quality of the barely-awoken, and felt like it emerged from far away. She stared at him through half-open eyelids as she pushed herself up, absent-mindedly tugging her loose shirt down. “You’re up earlier than I’d have expected.”

A million questions and comments pressed themselves at the edge of his mind, but they wouldn’t form into a cohesive sentence, the words slipping from him before he could place more than general feelings upon them. His lips split open and his grip tightened on the doorway. Vergil fought the cobwebs of his brain until he could grasp at a few. 

“I am awake,” he said. “On edge.”

“Nightmares?”

He hesitated before offering a slight nod. It wasn’t an exact description of the problem, but it helped hone in on the crux of it. Vergil clung to the single word offered when his own seemed so slippery. “Waking nightmares.”

Lady sat more fully up and gestured at the newly created room, indicating he could sit down. He stepped forward, closing the door behind him, but stayed standing. Jittering energy still coursed through him, and the very idea of sitting and stilling repulsed him. His tail flicked, scrapping part of the wall, so he stepped closer to give it room to move freely. Lady trailed its movement with a part-smile.

“Your asshole tail snapped me yesterday even when you were out cold,” she said, and it flicked angrily in response. She threw one leg over the other, her head shaking in amusement and disbelief. “It’s got a mind of its own, I tell you.”

Her banter calmed him, but Vergil couldn’t find the energy to respond. His mind had scattered to a hundred different places as he entered the living room—the chaotic and confusing memories of yesterday’s transformation, the way the sunlight hit the room, warm from summer heat and brightness, the flitter of a bird past his kitchen’s small window, the casual flick of his own tail and throbs of pain in his body, Lady’s calm and collected presence on his couch, the strands of his past fighting to rush in and claim their rightful places in his memories. All of it clamoured to be processed all at once, and through it he could not help but expect danger and pain, another attack, something to break the slow healing of the last months and send him stumbling back. Vergil could barely maintain himself present; answering Lady was a step too far.

She must have noticed, as she hopped to her feet, grabbed his forearm, and dragged him to the couch. “Sit down. I’ll tell you what I know while I look your wing-sling over, and you can focus on my words.”

He let himself be seated and spread his fingers across the couch, thinking of nothing but its leathery texture under his skin, or the way it gave under his weight, then Lady’s as she returned behind him. She told him of Nero’s midnight call and finding him half-shifted on the ground, and he clung to the matter-of-fact steadiness of her cadence to fight the shame and guilt leaving an acrid taste in his mouth. Vergil traced the groove on his cheek left by Mundus’ corruption. He had been impatient, had tried to force his way through the last bit of healing, to reclaim his power and name—to be _Vergil_ fully, with all that entailed—and he had paid for it. 

Now he felt more unmoored than he had since Dante had stripped him of his leg armour, floating half out of this world, his spirit fogged by the weight of defeat. _Stay present_ , he scolded himself, but the world grew numb and distant, empty safe for him and his master, the deep voice promising power enveloping him, reminding him that he was meant to serve, to be protected by unbreakable armour.

“V-Vergil?” Lady’s voice pierced the daze, hesitant at first, then close and confident. “Snap out of it!”

His vision focused on his hands, now covered in blue scales, his claws deep into the couch’s leather. The armour’s chestplate pulsed with soothing energy, and his tail had wrapped around Lady, holding tight. He inhaled deeply and held it, his ears ringing, his muscles throbbing. Vergil counted up the seconds, willing his hands back to pale human skin, and as the scales vanished, he released Lady from his hold.

“Apologies,” he whispered. “I am—”

“A whole ass mess, yeah.” She clapped his shoulders. “We know. I think that surge helped the break in your wing, but it’s not fixed yet. Can’t you make it go? Like, vanish?”

Vergil pressed his lips together. He barely felt the wing at his back beyond the pulses of pain where it attached to his back. He focused on it, trying to exercise the same control he’d had over his form, once upon a time, and will it away. The wing remained stubbornly attached.

“Nevermind,” Lady said, reading the long silence and lack of action for what it was: another failure.

Frustration built inside him, hot and painful, dragging along months of shame and guilt at his inabilities. He hated this powerlessness. Vergil had done his best to be patient and rest, to manage his energy and refrain from pushing his limits, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t go backwards like this, losing the ground of the last month and the joy of conjuring blue sparks, so close to his summoned swords. Shifting into his demon form in that bathroom… He had tasted victory, even for a moment, and the subsequent crash left him shattered and hopeless. He couldn’t do this anymore.

“I only want…” His words trailed off. He closed his fist over the leather couch, staring at his hand, refusing to turn and face Lady. “Power. Myself. I—”

“S’all right.” A hand rested on his right shoulder, painfully cool against his raw, burning skin. Vergil inhaled sharply, and the sound turned into a strangled half-sob. “We’re all shit at problems we can’t resolve with swords and bullets. It’s a miracle you haven’t tried this stunt every week since your return, if you ask me.” Her weight lifted behind him, and after a moment the notebook she’d gifted him landed on the couch before him, along with a pen. “Get some of those bubbling thoughts out. I’ll get food ready for you and the kid.”

Vergil set his fingers on the cover, a faint smile reaching his lips. He had written more and more as time passed, finding relief in his own unhinged, short poems. On the worst days, he would fill pages with words, sometimes all disjointed from one another, sometimes strung in small lines or stanzas. The exercise let him slip away without losing himself to nightmares and flashbacks, like a sort of controlled disassociation. Shaking, he picked up the pen and settled into the couch, cracking his book open. The words flowed, each inscribed in urgent chicken scratches.

_Weakness. Nightmares. Haunting. Self. Healing. Power. Ashes. Wings._

He paused, an itch at the edge of his mind, several ideas coalescing into one. A shiver ran through him.

_Phoenix._

He would return, rising from the ashes of Mundus’s destruction, stronger than ever. As long as Nero needed him, Vergil would always find his way back.

###

Nero woke to the sound of his zio’s loud protests, and the booming, genial voice immediately appeased a weird knot in his stomach. Everything always went better when his zio was around. It sounded like the Lady wanted him to clean, which was strange because even Nero knew Zio Dante was the worst at cleaning. Perhaps he should investigate. Anyway, the bed was empty, so Da’ must be with them, and Nero really wanted to see him. His mind was a little sleepy right now, but he felt like he hadn’t gone back to the bathroom. He’d fluffed up the pillows real good for his Da’, to make sure he would be very comfortable, and it had felt like a good idea to test them. Nero bit his lower lip. He must have fallen asleep in them, then. That wasn’t very diligent of him, but the Lady had been there, hadn’t she? And Da’ always felt bad when Nero didn’t sleep enough, so maybe it was all right.

He slipped out of the bed, listening to the ongoing argument about the bathroom, which the Lady was definitely winning. Or at least, that’s usually what it meant when zio’s voice got so pouty. Nero peeked out of the room and found Uncle Dante with a big bucket of water in his arms. He opened his mouth to protest, but a rag hit his face with a wet flop before sliding into the bucket. Zio stared at it with wide eyes, like he couldn’t understand what had happened, and a shriek of laughter burst out of Nero.

His zio spun towards him, his grin wide and comforting, and the bucket of water hit the ground with a splash. Dante stopped it from falling over with his foot as he strode over, scooping Nero up in a big hug.

“Up and smiling, little buddy!” Dante threw him upward, and Nero let out another excited scream as wind rushed through his hair and the ceiling got super close. He giggled on the way down, fearless—and his zio caught him, setting him on his shoulders. From there, Nero had a view of the whole room.

The Lady was in the kitchen surrounded by a lot of dishes, both clean and not. Something was in the oven and it smelled like tomatoes, making Nero’s mouth water. She had Da’s long blue coat over what she’d worn yesterday, but the sleeves were all rolled up and she didn’t button it or anything, so he didn’t know why she’d done that. The blue really worked well with one of her eyes though, and he liked that. 

His Da’ was usually very peculiar about who could wear his coat, but when Nero looked, he found him resting on the couch, eyes closed, his little writing book clenched in his hands. He only had one wing out now, and Nero’s eyes widened at the sight of it, blue ridges peeking from under the curtain shower. It looked very ridiculous, and Nero couldn’t help giggle. 

“Da’ has good fashion!” he declared, and Dante rumbled with laughter under him.

“Suits him, huh?” he said. “I love the fish look. Ya should convince him to keep it forever.”

Nero kicked his feet, his small heels hitting his zio’s large chest. He liked the fishes, but he didn’t like this talk of forever. “Does he need it forever?”

“Nah,” Lady replied immediately. “Hard to say how long, but he’ll heal fine.”

“Yeah, watcha’ worryin’ about?” Uncle Dante tilted his head up to look at him, so Nero helped by half-climbing over his hair to look down at him. “Ya know your dad’s made of stronger stuff.”

Nero’s throat tightened and he glanced at his sleeping dad with a sniff. He felt closer to before than to Mister Knight, but that was probably because he didn’t have armour on his back now. He always felt more like before after a piece of armour was removed. A lot of them were missing now. Firmly, because he needed to hear it, Nero said, “My Da’ is the strongest.”

“There ya go.” Dante lifted him by his armpits and set him on the ground. He shoved his big hand through Nero’s hair. “And from what I hear, you were very brave yesterday, too.”

Nero pouted and glanced at Lady. He hadn’t been brave, he had been terrified and had cried a lot and lost all of his words when he had called the Lady, so he shook his head really hard. He didn’t want to lie to his zio.

“It was very scary.” Nero thought it had been scarier than when demons had attacked them, because his Da’ had known what to do then, and he had stayed calm and hadn’t screamed like yesterday. But he had forgotten a lot of what it was like when the demons attacked, so maybe that was why it didn’t seem as scary anymore.

“But you did what you had to, and you called Lady.” Dante crouched in front of him, big paws on his tiny shoulder. Nero liked how his eyes were the same blue as his da’s. When his zio got close like that, it was easier to see that they were twins. “This is important, Nero. You’re never alone. Your dad is doing his best, but if he or you need help, you can always call us.”

“I can call the Lady,” Nero rectified. “You sleep a lot and you don’t like to answer the phone.”

The Lady burst out laughing, and his zio placed a hand over his heart. “Ouch, that hurt.”

Nero didn’t understand why. That’s what his dad said, and the Lady had agreed, so it had to be right. The truth shouldn’t hurt.

“Anyway,” Dante declared, before picking up his bucket again. “Apparently I had a debt or something. Imma clean that mess. Lady’s got something cookin’ if you’re hungry, buddy.”

Nero was hungry, but he didn’t want to eat yet. He climbed up the sofa to have a closer look at his da’, and after he inspected everything he could see in intent silence, scanning his back and arms and hands and face, he sat next to him and closed his eyes. The demon dad in him was muted, but it was steady. It had been so strong yesterday, but then it had started flaring in weird and scary ways, so Nero thought he preferred this. He leaned against the cold armour on his da’s chest and tried to let himself sink into the warm presence he’d grown so used to.

“N-Nero…?”

His da’s voice was raspy and quiet, but Nero perked up at it, his eyes flying open as he looked up. His father was looking back at him, one eye blue like his zio, the other still tinted with bits of red. Nero smiled anyway.

“‘Morning!” he chirped.

The piercing blue kept staring at him, searching, like he was trying to see something but inside Nero. Nero didn’t always understand what his da’ was thinking or wanted these days, and it could take him very long to find the words, so he had learned to be patient. He kept smiling, because that always seemed to help—and indeed, his da’ smiled back. He put his fingers through Nero’s hair, very gently.

“Good morning,” he said, taking care with each word. Da’s words had grown very precious and important, to him, but also to Nero. He didn’t have many of them, but Nero liked to hear his voice, so he cherished all of them. “Talk to me?”

His da’s voice was all quiet, and Nero thought that even if he smiled, he sounded really tired still. It made sense. The last night had been very scary for him, too. Days when he didn’t have a lot of words and he was distracted was when he asked Nero to talk, too. Zio said it was like his mind wandered off in the woods, and Nero’s words helped him stay on the path or find it again. Nero wasn’t sure he understood, but he remembered how scary it had been to get lost, so he was happy to talk. 

So he told his da’ that he really liked the curtain around his wings, and then he talked about the new books they had picked at the library and the stories inside. Zio Dante whistled in the background, making music that fit in strange ways with the wet plop of his rag while he cleaned, and the Lady’s food was smelling better and better. Nero’s mouth was full of water and his stomach growled, but he focused on the warmth of his da’s legs under him and the presence behind the armour, that quiet heart that felt like his da’ from before. Nero couldn’t help but think of how strong it had been yesterday, before everything became very scary.

“Da’...” Nero trailed off. His father squeezed his shoulder. That was how he told him to go on. “Does it hurt to be the demon again? Is that why you can’t do it for long?”

For a long time, Nero only had silence for an answer, and he felt guilty for asking. He shouldn’t ask questions from his da’, but this had felt important. Then Vergil slid his fingers through his hair and inhaled very slowly.

“Yes,” he said. “But I will again.” The fingers in his hair stopped and slid back to his shoulder. “I promise, little monster.”

Nero’s throat became all tight. He gave a big nod so it could be easily seen. His Da’ always kept his promise. They just had to be patient, all of them. Nero could do that. He wasn’t very good at it, but he would try hard for his da’s sake, so he went back to talking about the big adventures of Myriad the Octopus and all the cool things she could do. As time passed, the heart-squeezing terror of the previous night slowly faded away, replaced by the comfortable routine of a day with his sick da’. There would be many more, but one day he would have his demon dad again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I have begun writing a whole extra chapter for this! This is what happens when your brain starts thinking of the story more, and the loose ends you wanna tie still :3 It'll be ready... in a few days I guess?


	4. Underwater World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the adults realize Nero is avoiding the bathroom, and Dante sets out to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be a little rough? It has not been reread 100 times. XD

Vergil improved in leaps and bounds over the next weeks. Well, perhaps improved wasn’t the word for it. Dude traded hours of stoic silence in his armour for nightmares 24/7, and he spent a shitton of time staring vaguely ahead of him, a glaze over his eyes. So he did have lots and lots of mediocre hours—probably more than Dante knew about—but when he _was_ there, boy did it feel right. That back plate must have contained his snappish haughtiness, ‘cause Dante couldn’t set foot without a comment about his greasy hair or debatable sense of style. It was all “black high collars don’t fit you” or “where did you find another red coat?” or “I don’t care how stylish you think it is, your guns won’t make it in my house”, and every single one of these prickly retort was absolute music to Dante’s ears. He responded by mussing Vergil’s hair or with a quick “don’t think I haven’t seen the snakeskin pants in your closet”, and on Vergil’s best days a flash of blue sent Dante’s heart racing with the expectation of a summoned sword. Those weren’t back yet, but his bro accessed them way easier without the back plates constraining him, creating sparkling blue explosions that dissipated quickly. 

Nero clearly rejoiced in the full sentences too, showing his da’ new drawings and asking for comments, or making him read library books instead of the other way around. And while Vergil hadn’t tried his full trigger again (not intentionally, anyway; the worst of his nightmares brought parts of it out), he seemed fine summoning and maintaining his tail. Dante almost wished he didn’t: that thing kept whipping at him when he tried to sneak on Vergil for a quick knuckle-rub on his head. Nero loved it, though, and he’d always sit touching it if he could. 

On days where Vergil could focus but not easily speak, they brought out a number of board games he could still play and sat down, sometimes dragging Dante, Lady, and Trish along for a game, depending on who’d dropped by. The kiddo hadn’t smiled so much in months, to their collective joy. Probably why it’d taken everyone so long to notice something was wrong. 

Dante hadn’t thought much of Nero’s insistence to brush his teeth in the kitchen since his much more lively dad usually hung around the sofa or dinner table in that big shared area, and while he’d thought Nero was a little quiet in the bath, he’d figured it’d just been a long day. They’d made a point of keeping the kid busy and bringing him outside to get him some good sunlight while his dad rested, so exhaustion didn’t feel out of place—not until Vergil stopped him from leaving, one evening after Nero had gone to bed. Setting sunlight still blazed through the open curtains, its red light casting his bro’s thin face in stark relief and bringing out the red still present in his once-corrupted eye. Vergil’s lips split open, but words didn’t spring out right away—he hadn’t had the smoothest of days. Dante raised his eyebrows.

“No rush. Ya know I hate the sound of your voice.” 

He grinned at Vergil, who glared at him in turn, and the familiarity of it lifted part of the awkwardness of the wait. At length, Vergil’s gaze slid to his bedroom’s door before flicking back to Dante.

“Nero… wets his bed. Every night.”

“Ain’t that just what kids do?” Vergil sounded concerned, but it’s not like Nero had ever been 100% dry, no? That just sounded like a kid’s thing to him. Which, ok, everything Nero did was just a kid’s thing to him. 

“Yes. No. He was… better.” Vergil huffed and his scowl deepened as he struggled for more of his precious words. Dante made a point of staring at the bedroom. He didn’t like this shit. His dumbass brother had spent years shoving it all inside, wordlessly absorbing his pain and transforming it into a sharp, frozen exterior none could break, and now that he actually wanted to air his big feelings, he couldn’t get a word! And that was just the kind of Big Suck that made Dante’s anger swirl within. “I think… the bathroom. He stares often.”

“He… does?” Now that Vergil mentioned it, the kiddo’s eyes did tend to stray there. “Ya think he holds it in ‘cause he’s afraid of the bathroom?”

Vergil answered with a slow nod, and all of Nero’s other strange behaviour surfaced in Dante’s mind—the teeth brushing, the quietness, the way he’d wanted to show Dante how far he could pee a lot outside, or how he insisted on using public washrooms if they were out. It hadn’t been that long since Nero had stopped the night diapers (a fact he had proudly shared with Dante at the time, and demanded ice cream rewards for), so he probably still sucked at holding it all in for long. But this seemed like a simple problem with a simple solution.

“Can’t he wake you to go? Like, I’m sure it ain’t scary with his da’ in there with him?” 

“I have told him so.” Vergil shrunk in on himself, leaning against the door and staring pointedly away. “He… will not. Because I need sleep.”

_Oh._ Oh no, this kid was too sweet. Didn’t wanna wake his sick dad to go pee, even though the bathroom apparently scared him shitless. Hard not to compare with every time Vergil had gone along with Dante’s terrible ideas when they were kids ‘cause he didn’t want to show fear and because Dante looked like he was having fun’. 

“Right, all right, I see it. Whatcha need me for?”

Vergil’s shoulders slumped, and the intense aura of powerlessness washing off from him sank Dante’s little heart. Poor bro had no fucking clue, did he? Neither did Dante, really, but he sure as hell wasn’t gonna turn down Vergil _asking for help._ Ya had to take your miracles when they happened! So he slapped his hand on Vergil’s shoulder, gripping it tight, and grinned when his twin looked up.

“Don’t ya worry, my brain’s bubblin’ with ideas!” he declared.

A slight smirk touched Vergil’s lips, and while he offered a nod of acknowledgement, his next word gave no room for gratefulness. 

“Dante,” he said, with all the annoyed warmth Dante had come to adore, “That is reason to worry.”

###

Dante brought Nero out for a long bike ride ending at Freddi’s, and they sat their asses on some hard benches outside, delicious ice cream melting in the hot summer sun. Most days he didn’t notice the heat, but today it hit the back of his skull and neck hard, and he was glad they’d gotten Nero a cool little cap that looked like a stingray. He’d bet if he’d brought Nero back red as a tomato again, Vergil would have miraculously found many, many words for him. His head was protected and they’d slathered a shitton of sunblock on him though.

Nero didn’t mind the sun. If anything, it seemed to power his legs and tongue, and while all the adults they met around the park and behind the counter were exhausted from the heavy heat, Nero just babbled on about how good he was with his bicycle (he’d learned to do wheelies and never stopped), or the grasshopper he’d nearly caught, and the lavender he wanted to bring home (he said Lav-Ender with lots of emphasis on the first syllable and it was downright adorable, really).

Through the whole day, Dante kept handing the kid bottles of water—and, sure, he didn’t want Nero to get dehydrated by the sun and shit, but mostly he wanted his little bud to need the bathroom. And lo’ and behold, Nero was squirming in his seat by the time he finished his ice cream. 

“Ya wanna head home?” Dante asked. “Been a big long day. I bet your Dad’s up and about now.”

Nero pouted and shoved the empty plastic spoon from his sundae in his mouth, even if it was all empty now. He eyed the ice cream parlor over Dante’s shoulder. “I need to pee.”

“Here, huh?” Dante looked at his nephew’s big blue eyes and his little pout, and how utterly adorable he was, and his heart melted. He’d thought he’d push Nero to tell him he was scared of their home bathroom by insisting to go home, but that’s just now how he did conversations. “I know ya ain’t peeing home anymore, kiddo, so I’m gonna venture a guess, and you tell me if I’m wrong, all right?”

Nero’s eyes got even bigger. He clung to the spoon, still in his mouth, and gave a very slight nod. 

“Ya don’t like your bathroom, but your dad’s sick and you don’t wanna bother him with it. Good so far?”

Nero pulled the spoon out and stared at the table. Dante could feel his little feet kicking under. He waited, and the kiddo eventually offered him another nod. Spinning his own plastic spoon between his fingers, Dante kept going, as casually as he could. Grin-game face on, just to keep the kid at ease.

“Right. Now, I ain’t the most observant pea in a pod, but this all started when you found Vergil half shifted in the bathroom.” He caught the spoon and pointed it at Nero. “I think the bathroom’s scary to you now.”

Nero huffed, puffing out his chest like he was big and old and courageous (the last of which he was, even if he didn’t think so) and that was all the clues Dante needed to know he’d hit the jackpot. “Bathrooms aren’t scary. That’s silly.”

“It is, but here’s some old man’s wisdom from your zio: sometimes the silliest things become scary by association with real terrifying shit.” Dante set his gaze on Nero and leaned forward. “Ya wanna hear a story about your zio?”

Nero always wanted stories, even moreso about any of the adults in his life. All of them tended to keep their past behind them, so he didn’t get to hear much about their childhood (which was for the better, where the twins were concerned). But this was a good time, so Dante offered the honeypot and grinned when Nero’s hunched shoulders straightened and he nodded. 

“One day while your dad and I were just a lil’ bit older than you are, something horrible and scary happened to us. We lost our home that day, and we kinda lost sight of each other.” Dante had thought he was ready for this, but his voice got rough, and he knew his smile was cracking. He hoped Nero didn’t see through it too much, but the kiddo had spent the last months learning to read his silent dad. He could probably tell. “Anyway. Bad stuff all around. Point is, I was a cool kid back then, but nowhere near as awesome as today. So when all the scary stuff happened, I hid in a cabinet. Ya know, big cupboards with slated windows?”

Nero hesitated, as if he was struggling to picture it, but after Dante’s description he gave a meek nod and said “Armadio.”

“Huh.. yeah, probably.” Not that he’d have any idea what the italian word for it was. “Anyway. Ya ever seen one of those at my place?”

Nero’s brow knitted as he went into deep thoughts, and Dante would have sworn he was mentally reviewing every corner of the _Devil May Cry_ in his mind. Thorough examination, dirty underwear and pizza box towers included. It almost made him self-conscious of the mess the kid had lived in for a few months. Almost.

“I don’t think so,” Nero finally said. “Your put your clothes on the ground.”

Dante laughed and put a hand over his heart. “Where it belongs.”

This earned him a scowl. “Da’ says I have to pick up mine. The ground is dirty.”

“Not if you clean it,” Dante countered, leaning back into his chair.

He should have known better than to argue with his nephew, who had quite definitely inherited his father’s sense of barbed replied, even if he had none of the actual bite behind it.

“You do not clean the ground,” he stated, and there was no room for arguing in his tone. He knew, and that was it. Best get out of this argument ASAP.

“The point was, I don’t own a cabinet, and I never will. The things still give me the creeps. It’s like all the super scary memories I’ve got from when I was smaller come back when I’m around one. Now, you’ve seen my cool sword. I’m way bigger and dangerous, but they still scare me.” He ran a hand through his hair and forced his smile to stay there, steady and open. Now that he said it aloud, it did sound embarrassing. “It’s silly, but it is what it is.”

“Zio…” Nero bit his lower lip. He’d gone back to staring at the table, and muttered the next words in such a low voice they were barely audible. “Can I keep not going to the bathroom home? You never bought a cabinet.”

_Shit._ That wasn’t the lesson, no! Dante held back a snort, then a laugh, and fought to get this back on track. “Ya don’t think your own bathroom’s a lil’ more complicated? Ya gotta be able to pee at night, kiddo. Ain’t nothing like emptying a full bladder.”

“But I don’t like to go.” Nero’s voice had taken on this pleading tone that just about shattered Dante’s heart, and then the kiddo turned his big blue teary eyes on him. How could anyone resist that shit? “I don’t wanna.”

Everything inside of Dante was melting under Nero’s eyes. No wonder even icy Vergil had given his whole heart to this kid, with that kinda look. He had to be strong, though. This was for Nero, too.

“Well,” he said, “I was thinkin’ we could work on ways to make it all less scary. Why don’t you and I take the rest of the afternoon and hit the shopping mall?”

“The… shopping mall?”

Nero’s shoulder had gone all straight again, and the teary gleam vanished from his eyes, replaced with curiosity and excitement. Had this kiddo been crying on purpose? Man, Dante hoped he hadn’t mastered that power, or they were all doomed. He reached across the table and clasped his hand over Nero’s forearm.

“You heard me, little bud. Don’t ya think the whole thing needs to be redecorated? It’s all chipped and bland!” Dante slid out of his seat and around the table, to crouch next to Nero. He threw an arm over his nephew’s tiny shoulders and threw the other one out, looking towards the sun as if into the future. “But you and I together, we can turn it into a house of splendor and colour!”

###

As they walked through the store, Dante established a mental decibel threshold and bought everything that had Nero squeal and scream loud enough to break it, including but not limited to a new totally blank shower (for him to draw on whatever he wanted), several strings of multicoloured hanging lights with jellyfishes and octopus and various other marine life, cool plastic kelp to stick to the ceiling, and a big picture of a shark, grinning with all its sharp teeth (Nero insisted those looked kinda like his demon dad’s) that said “Brush Your Teeth”. Dante had no idea how he’d fit it all in Vergil’s tiny bathroom, but it didn’t matter. Nor did the absolute certainty he’d need Lady to help him pay the next bills. Nero was excited, babbling loudly about everything they had and how cool it looked, and Dante figured as long as his obsession with fish held, they could use it to drive away the fear.

He was extremely pleased to get to the flat and find Vergil still asleep, face-first in his pillow, wing still tied at his back. Lady said his wing was healing good and they could probably free it before the camping weekend, and honestly, Dante would miss the absurd contraption. Nothing like a shower curtain with bright fishies to shatter the effect of a cold, angry glare. But hey, he could always find new ways to poke fun at his brother. For now, he closed the door behind himself and gave Nero a conspiratorial grin.

“Let’s surprise him with the makeover. You good to go into the bathroom and decorate with me?”

Boxes of fish lights in hand, Nero met his gaze, chin up, and gave him the most intense of determined nods. Dante knew that look from his dad. This one promised to be a doozy.

###

Most days, Vergil drifted out of his restless sleep to a quiet house. Nero had found a certain number of ways to occupy himself that weren’t too noisy, and Dante took him outside often so he could scream to his heart’s content in parks or streets. The loud shrieks sent his heart careening, and his hands instinctively moved—one to his hip for a weapon; the other across his face, for protection—until he parsed through the screams and understood the words where he’d previously only registered demonic screeching. 

“ **Accendi! Accendi, zio!** ” 

Vergil relaxed with a groan. Home. He was home and that was his boy screaming. Nothing was about to attack him.

“Woah, give it a minute, little bud. Gotta make sure I don’t fry the whole house with all of these plugged in.”

Though apparently no demons didn’t mean he was safe. What foolishness was Dante up to now? And what lights did—

A flash interrupted his thoughts as multicoloured light snuck from under the doorway and Nero’s screams reached a new level of high-pitched. His ears rang from it, haunting memories of far more dangerous times clinging at the back of his mind, threatening to reemerge. Vergil fought for his focus as he crawled out of bed. Unbridled joy seeped into Nero’s voice, and Vergil couldn’t remember when he’d last heard such undiluted happiness from his son. His throat tightened, and he took a moment at the door to truly breathe into the purity of the moment and let his little monster’s excitement imprint onto him.

“All right, looks like I got it all working,” Dante said. “Go get your dad? Ya wanna show him this beauty, don’t you?”

Vergil’s eyes trailed to the multihued glow under the doorway, and his apprehension returned. He held to the edge of the bed, waiting for Nero to come, trying his best to calm his heart and steady himself. Cobwebs from sleep still clung to him and the brutal awakening had left him more rattled than he cared to admit, but Nero had clearly prepared something with his zio’s help and he wanted his mind and body to be as present as could be. He closed his eyes and whispered “I am here”, as much a confirmation to himself as a test of his current ability to make words.

“Da’?”

Nero had creaked the doorway open and stared at him from it, his body half inside the room. Blue and yellow lights danced across his white hair, which was unruly in the distinct way repeated Zio-Hands-Through-Hair left it. Although there had been a hint of worry in his voice, Nero was smiling at him. Vergil nodded.

“I am here,” he said again, with more force this time. It was always easier to repeat words. “You have… something to show me?”

Nero’s grin widened, but instead of explaining, he threw the door wide open, revealing the source of the light with a proud “Tada!”, and all Vergil could do was stare, his mind desperate to understand what he was seeing. 

They had turned the living area into an aquarium.

No, that was an exaggeration. They had made a path across it, from the bedroom door to the bathroom, but the effect from his current position was so encompassing it took him a moment to notice most of the flat had been spared. Fake seaweed hung from the ceiling in a two-foot-wide area, the longest of them at the edges to cut off the rest of the room like a curtain. Through it hung small blue lights casting a diffused hue, and several transparent plastic fishes and other creatures had been hung on fishing thread to “float”, each with its own coloured light within. Most of those were golden, but a few had red or green lights too. On the bathroom door was a smack of glow-in-the-dark lavender jellyfishes. Even with the remainder of the late-day sunlight peeking through the living room’s drawn curtains, it had a fairytale feel to it. Vergil could only imagine what it would be at night.

Nero grabbed his hand, dragging him out of his daze, and pulled him along the path. Vergil had to duck to avoid some of the hung fishes, most of which had been clearly put at Nero’s height, but he got to the end without hitting his head on anything. Dante waited at the bathroom’s door, one hand on the handle, his shit-eating grin bigger than ever. 

“I think ya know what to expect now,” he said, and he pushed the door open with a grandiose swing. 

The bathroom was unrecognizable. Careful placement of blue fairy lights, dangling seaweed, a sandy bathroom rug, fake mossy rocks and hanging glowing fishes had turned it into its own self-contained underwater world. It was eerie and beautiful, full of plastic life and joy, but Dante had kept all the important places fully accessible and functional despite the chaos of fishes. 

“This is…” The words wouldn’t come, although for once it had nothing to do with them staying trapped in his throat, blocked from expression. He simply had none.

Nero tugged on his sleeve then ran to the shower curtain and pulled it across, displaying it. Most of it was white still, but the right half was partly covered in simplistic hand-drawn waves and seaweeds, among which floated a young boy with white hair and his dad. They both had a mermaid tail and were holding hands, and the older one held a sheathed curved sword with his other. Vergil didn’t need to ask who had drawn: he’d recognize his little monster’s work amongst a thousand, childish though it was. His throat tightened and he stepped forward, sliding his fingers through Nero’s dishevelled hair.

“You are better with every day,” he said, trailing the art with his fingertips. 

Nero beamed up at him, but there was something fierce in his expression, like a challenge to the world. “I gave you no armour. It would make you sink.”

It _had_ made him sink, drowning out everything that had made him Vergil to leave a powerful, easily controllable husk. Being without the armour—or most of it—remained hard, as he had to contend with his worst nightmares every time he resurfaced, but he had Nero with him, his own little buoy to keep him floating, each smile a breath of fresh air. And this bathroom was all him, washed away from the traces of his mistakes. 

Vergil crouched down, putting himself at eye level with his son. “You… like the bathroom now?”

Nero grew solemn, his smile turning into a determined pout and his chin lifting. He glanced at the area in front of the bathroom sink where Vergil had fallen, then back at his da’. “I like it more. We made it pretty instead of scary.”

‘More’ didn’t mean all his fears were gone, but Vergil nodded nonetheless. He’d had no idea what to do about this, but clearly calling on Dante’s boundless imagination had been the right decision. This felt like something he should be loath to admit, echoes of his old self protesting the idea Dante could be better at _anything_ , but as Vergil pieced himself together, he’d also learned some parts might be best left behind. 

He stretched back up, seeking his twin out with his gaze. Dante had leaned against the now-closed doorway, which had another set of jellyfish on this side. Part of him wanted to hear all the details—how he’d gotten this idea, how much it’d cost, what he’d told Nero, if anything at all—and another still wanted to mock-berate him for the unexpected renovations. But these were all a lot of words, none of which conveyed the important part of his feelings.

“Thank you, Dante.”

His brother’s eyebrows shot up, then he burst out laughing. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” he said, before walking up to Vergil and throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Anytime, bro. Anytime.”

They didn’t have time for more: Nero jumped into the conversation, eager to provide his da’ with _all the details_ of their shopping trip and installing the underwater world, and to review every single piece of decoration he had installed with his zio. Vergil followed along, more than happy to let his little monster’s voice carry him, as soothing as the back and forth of waves on the shore. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's little Nero's first narration!! :3


End file.
